


Wrecking Ball

by wonderluck



Category: Lost
Genre: Angst, Gen, i titled it this before that miley cyrus song was released le sigh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderluck/pseuds/wonderluck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The room is cold and Ben's skin feels too tight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrecking Ball

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place off-island after "The Economist." Kink bingo fill: writing on the body.

Sayid stands before Ben in the basement of the veterinary clinic Ben uses to patch him up. He's still wearing the impeccably tailored steel grey suit he wore on the flight out from his last job. He had only been on the ground an hour before finding Ben here.

Ben is naked, but not bound—Sayid is too quick for him to consider a successful escape. Though he doesn't have the cover of his pressed trousers or crisp shirts, Ben manages an air of detachment and composure. His face is blank, as if he's bored.

They're surrounded by thick cement walls and enclosed by two metal doors, with the ventilation unit whirring softly above them. Supply boxes line the far wall, stacked high on top of empty crates.

The room is cold and Ben's skin feels too tight.

Sayid pulls a thin permanent marker from the pocket of his trousers. He holds Ben's confident stare while he uncaps it. 

"You're going to wear the name of every person whose death you caused," he says. 

Ben is smirking, unnaturally calm. 

Sayid begins on Ben's shoulder. He states each name as the black of his marker bleeds on Ben's skin. He works down Ben's arm, down his side until he reaches the ankle, listing the names of the Dharma Initiative employees killed by nerve gas. Ben had orchestrated their deaths, and therefore is guilty. Sayid's file on Ben has each name listed, page after page. His information is extensive, from Ben's birth to present. 

The scratching whisper of the marker tickles in places, pulls uncomfortably in others, but Ben remains still.

"Horace Goodspeed" and "Amy Goodspeed" transcribed along a forearm. "Pierre Chang" scrawled across his ribs. 

Sayid writes "Martin Heamy" and "Roger Linus" on Ben's palms, as these are the kills most important to him, and Sayid wants them to fade first. 

At this Ben almost comments, but Sayid has already moved on. 

The _Kahana_ freighter crew comes next: the machinist, cook, steward, engineers. Thirty people in all written along his torso and down his thighs.

The flipping of paper and the scrape of Sayid's shoes as he shifts and crouches are the only sounds in the room. Ben adds an indifferent sigh as the arches of his feet start to ache, and he longs for the comfort of his favorite boots.

Sayid saves the column of Ben's spine for the names of his friends. He writes them there so that Ben will have particular trouble reaching them when it comes time to scrub the ink off. Their names will remain longer, like ghosts.

Between the shoulder blades he writes "Charlie Pace" and "Michael Dawson," digging the pen tip in as hard as he can when a letter lands directly over a vertebra. 

Ben winces. 

Sayid prints "John Locke" under Ben's collarbone because this name hurts. The pen has started to dry, and he has to press harder and trace over the letters numerous times. He pauses for effect, and Ben looks down, regret flickering across his features. He knows why Sayid saved this for last. 

Sayid caps the pen and drops it beside him, plastic clacking on cement. He reaches into his pocket for a fresh one. 

He is not feeling generous.

Ben's eyes widen, and panic tinges his voice. "What are you doing?" He shakes his head as Sayid uncaps the new pen. "That's it, that's all of them." 

Sayid shifts, his face filling Ben's field of vision. "You know that's not true, Benjamin." 

He grips Ben's chin in one hand. Ben lets his eyes fall closed and tries to clear his mind, to steel himself. He can't—he knows what's coming. 

Sayid begins to write "Alexandra Rousseau" on Ben's cheek, taking his time with each line of each letter, slowly enunciating the syllables of her name. Ben's face starts to crumble. 

"Hold still," Sayid warns firmly, watching the black ink feather at the edges of the letters where it soaks into the skin's texture. 

Ben will suffer into the night, having to look in the mirror and scrub his face raw. 

Ben's eyes brim with tears and one, two break free as he starts to tremble. Sayid pushes a finger under Ben's eye so he can finish, more tears slipping onto his fingers and following a path to his wrist. 

Ben clenches his fists tightly at his side, and in his head he hears the _pop_ of the gunshot that took Alex from him, as if he's in the house again with the sound bouncing off the windowpane. 

Sayid finishes the "a-u" of her name beside the corner of Ben's mouth and steps back abruptly. 

Ben's knees give out and he hits the floor hard, hunched over with his hands on his thighs, shaking violently. Guttural sobs spill from his mouth. His spine seems to seize in on itself and he pitches forward, scraping his palms as he catches his fall. 

He collapses to one side with a muffled slap that would register as a radiating sting if he could still feel anything but the hole in his chest sucking the breath from him. 

"My Alex, my Alex," he whispers and chokes, balled up on his side, and then he's crying so loudly that it reverberates off the walls. 

Sayid calmly retreats to a chair and watches him writhe on the concrete. 

Ben's mouth gapes as he takes in huge gulps of breath between the sobs that overcome him. Sounds like those of a suffering animal issue from deep in his chest, and his eyes are screwed shut so tightly that the blood vessels will surely rupture beneath his skin. 

He quiets momentarily while he starts to gag, bile searing his throat, and his stomach threatens to empty. He coughs until it passes, rough sounds punctuating silence like the skipping of a record.

He whimpers, arms curling around himself. The shift causes grit from the unswept floor to bite into his skin. He can't feel it. He only feels the pressing weight of misery, of emptiness. 

He cries himself hoarse, uttering "I'm sorry" over and over until he's exhausted. 

He's quiet now, shattered across the floor. He is cleansed, but he is not absolved. 

Ben comes back to himself, unfurls, and sits up.

He clears his throat. "Thank you, Sayid," he says. 

Sayid nods once. "Are you finished with this yet, Benjamin?" 

Ben cocks his head to one side, brow furrowing as if it's a concept he's never considered. 

Sayid sighs. "Shall I return here after my trip to Madrid?"

Ben straightens his spine, and reaches for his shirt. He inhales deeply through his nose and exhales his defeat.

"Yes."


End file.
